


Private Practice

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Doctor/Patient, Dom/sub, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Face Slapping, Fingerfucking, Gloves, M/M, Medical Kink, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex, Verbal Humiliation, water play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What is it about the middle of the night that makes you guys so keen on cutting each other up?" He locks the outer door, and gives me a look that could bore through steel. "You've got the brains of a stray dog and the morals of an alley cat, every single one of you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Practice

I hammer on the door, wincing as the motion stabs another jolt of pain through my shoulder. There are no lights on, and I can't hear any movement inside. Maybe I'm out of luck tonight. Maybe I should just go home and hope my shoulder takes care of itself. I've heard this guy will treat you with no questions asked, and I've heard that he doesn't even charge that much for it, but I've no idea whether he's the type to open up after hours or not. Maybe he's up there in bed, sleeping peacefully while I bleed all over his doormat. Then the light comes on and the door opens suddenly, giving me enough of a fright that I tense up, and my shoulder flares up with pain again.

"What?" The old guy peers out at me over the top of his glasses, snapping at me like I'm a salesman interrupting his dinner. I take my hand away from my shoulder, so he can see the dark stain on my jacket, and before I've said a word he opens the door fully and pulls me inside. "Typical hoodlum," he mutters, "you don't even have the decency to get yourself sliced up in daylight hours like a civilised person."

He's fully dressed, though, so unless he's in the habit of sleeping in a three-piece suit I doubt I really woke him up. And it's a nice suit, too, so maybe that rumour about his prices being low was just hot air. I try to shrug off the grip he's got on my good arm, but it isn't happening. He's stronger than I expected for a guy his age. He must have a fair bit of muscle under that suit. I leave his hand where it is, and let him bundle me through the hallway.

"What is it about the middle of the night that makes you guys so keen on cutting each other up?" He locks the outer door, and gives me a look that could bore through steel. "You've got the brains of a stray dog and the morals of an alley cat, every single one of you."

"Hey," I say, pulling against his grip again even though it makes my shoulder sing with pain. "You don't want to fix me up, doc, you just say so."

He waves my words away like they're just a fly buzzing around him, and shoves me through the doorway into his little treatment room. "Get in there and sit down," he orders, and I find myself wondering if he used to be an army medic, before whatever happened that reduced him to treating punks like me. "Take your jacket and shirt off, and keep your mouth shut."

"Alright–" I start to say, and he gives me an ice-cold look, so I shut my mouth and do as I'm told. He doesn't talk while he washes his hands, so I strip down in silence. It's only once I've got my shirt off and I'm perched on one of the little stools next to the counter that the doctor even looks at me again. His eyes are still cold and serious, but there's that familiar flicker in them, clear as day, as his gaze runs over my bare skin. I watch him watching me, enjoying the attention, but barely a moment passes before he grabs hold of my elbow and gets to work. He might like the look of me, but evidently he's not going to be distracted from his job. At least, not yet.

"How did you get this?" He holds my arm with one hand, gripping it just firmly enough to keep me in position, and starts swabbing the wound down. It stings like a slap in the face, and I have to answer through gritted teeth.

"Tripped and fell, caught myself on a nail," I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the wall.

"A nail, was it? Some nail, to make a nice clean cut like this." He scoffs, and another wave of pains swells through my shoulder. I bite my lip, tensing up as he starts to lay in the first stitches, and now he outright laughs at me. "What's the matter, a tough guy like you can't get by without anaesthetic?"

I'm not going to be baited, not while he's still got a needle in me, so I keep quiet and watch him work. His hands are so precise, so steady and careful despite their size, that just watching him threading each stitch through my flesh has me daydreaming about what else those broad fingers could do to me. They're strong enough to bruise me, no doubt about that, but they're so skilled I bet he could play me like a violin. I'm just starting to get into the idea, when I look up from the wound and catch him staring at me.

"Um," I cough, trying to get it together, desperate for something to say that wouldn't get me thrown right out of here. "You treat a lot of my type, don't you?"

He laughs, curt and hard. "Cheap little hoods with no sense of self-preservation? Sure."

"But from what I've heard, you're not mixed up in–" I interrupt myself with a little grunt of pain as he starts working his way up to the far end of the wound. "In what I'm mixed up in. So why don't you turn guys like me away, if you could be making a packet treating nice, wholesome–"

"You're done." He tapes a square of gauze over my shoulder, and turns away. "Now get dressed and get out."

I swallow the rest of that question, and put my shirt back on in silence, watching him as he takes off his gloves and washes his hands again. By the time he's finished, I've got my jacket on and I'm digging around in the pockets trying to figure out if I've got anywhere near enough cash on me to cover this. Very quickly I realise the answer to that is a great big _no_ , and I really should have thought of that before I knocked on this guy's door.

"How much?" I say casually, trying to figure out if I could make a run for it before he caught me. Then I remember that he locked the outer door, and I guess that explains why.

"Fifty."

That's not much more than a legit doctor would charge, but as reasonable as it is, it's no good to me and my empty pockets, so I'd better hope he's amenable to taking favours in lieu of cash.

"I don't have it on me." I lean back against the counter, resting one hand on my belt buckle and wiping my mouth with the other. It's not the most seductive pose I've ever pulled, but it's the best I can do with one arm out of action. "Maybe we can work out some kind of arrangement?"

He laughs, but it's a nasty, bitter laugh full of scorn. "Typical hoodlum," he says again, grabbing hold of my arms and steering me out into the hallway. "Your fists get you into trouble, and you think that body of yours will get you right back out of it. You ought to try using your brains instead, son. Just for the novelty."

He's got me out through the front door before I realise what's going on, and I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me right off. "Go home and rest that arm. You tear my stitches and you'll regret it, boy."

The door slams behind me, and I stand there like an idiot for a moment, until my shoulder gives me a nice, sharp throb of pain to wake me up. I shove my hands in my pockets and start making my way home, trying to put the whole idea out of my head, but I have about as much luck with that as you'd expect. I mean, when was the last time someone turned me down? Must be years ago. I haven't barked up the wrong tree since I was a teenager. And it's not as if the doctor didn't like the look of me. Oh no, he gave me the once-over, just as keen as any other old guy with a taste for cheap punks. He looked me up and down and then he decided I wasn't worth the bother. That stings, that really stings, enough to make me forget all about my shoulder.

 

* * *

 

"Mind my arm," I say, shucking off my shirt and nodding toward the bandage on my shoulder.

"Sure," the guy says, but I don't think he's really listening. To be fair, I haven't exactly been attentive myself tonight. I know we spent the best part of the evening chatting, but I can't remember a single thing he said. Can't even remember his name. And then he puts those big, heavy hands around my throat and shoves me down to my knees, and I decide I don’t really care. I keep my eyes locked on his as I slide my lips down around his cock. The way his eyes narrow, half-closing, and he breathes in hard like he's had a few volts put through him, I could chase moments like that all night.

He might have been talkative earlier, but now he only breaks the silence with the occasional grunt of pleasure. Which works for me, because if he's not talking then I can supply my own narration, filling in all the blanks a random pickup like this wouldn't bother with. I kneel there and suck his cock, stroking myself while I work my tongue over him, and all the while I'm telling myself a story about what a filthy boy I am, what a desperate slut I must be to get on my knees and service him like this. I call myself all the names I'd really prefer _he_ was throwing at me, working my fist tighter and tighter over my cock with each imagined insult, and when he finally puts his hand on the back of my head and pumps my mouth full of come, it almost finishes me off. But not quite.

He leaves as soon as he's done, and when I close the door behind him I'm still hard, more frustrated now than ever. Sometimes I think a half-assed session is worse than none at all. So I have another drink and lay down on the sofa, closing my eyes and letting my imagination paint me a nice picture. It takes me maybe a couple of minutes to finish the job. Not long, but it feels like I've been waiting for hours. It's that old doctor I've got in mind when I come, and that's no surprise. The whole thing has been bugging me all week, needling me over and over every time the memory comes back to me, and every time I think about it I end up as stirred up as I was the night he threw me out. The fact that thinking about him gets me off makes me even more agitated, and somehow after I've finished I feel even less satisfied than before.

So I have another drink, and then another, and by the time the sun comes up I've finished the bottle. I should go to bed, sleep all this off, and forget all about the doctor. I should concentrate on work, because god knows the boss has got me tagging along on enough jobs these days that I don't need any distractions, especially since this bad arm makes me about twice as much of a liability as normal. I should, but I don't.

 

* * *

 

This time the front door is open when I get there. I walk right on in, and when I saunter past the front desk, the receptionist just rolls his eyes at me like this happens every day. So I guess this doctor really does deal with a dozen punks like me before breakfast. The treatment room door is wide open too, so I walk straight in and sit down on the stool.

"You're back, are you?" The doctor says, and he isn't any less gruff in the middle of the morning than in the middle of the night. "Which bit of you got sliced up by a nail this time?"

"Nothing like that, doc." I smile, leaning forward over the counter and picking up a pair of tweezers. I've barely started toying with them when the doctor grabs my wrist and snatches the things out of my hand.

He slams the tweezers down on the counter. "What is it, then?"

"I've been having terrible trouble sleeping," I say, leaving my wrist where it is. That grip is firm enough that I feel like I could stay in it all day and not get bored. "I thought you might be able to give me something."

"Oh, since drinking yourself to sleep didn't work, you mean?"

"Now, that's not nice, doc," I pout like he's really hurt my feelings, but I can only hold the expression for a moment before it breaks into a smirk. "What kind of bedside manner is that?"

He leaves that hanging, and lets go of my wrist. "Take your shirt off," he says, brisk and cold again, like this is just an ordinary check-up. "Might as well have a look at that shoulder while you're here."

I do as I'm told, but I take my time over it. My shoulder still aches and stings if I move it too quickly, but mainly I'm lingering over stripping off because I like the thought of keeping him waiting. Maybe I just want to frustrate the doctor like he's frustrated me. He watches me silently, and once I've shrugged my shirt off altogether I can feel his eyes on the marks covering my torso, taking in every bruise and scratch.

"I told you to rest that arm, and just look at you." He jabs a finger against the biggest of the bruises on my chest, hard enough to make me wince. "What's the matter, you can't go a few days without getting yourself beaten up?"

"Can't go a few _hours_ without it," I grin, laughing at how slurred my words sound. I figure if he knew how I'd picked up those bruises, it'd either turn him on or appal him into beating my ass himself, so I keep going. "Like an addiction or something. You got any way of curing _that_ , doc?"

He doesn't reply, just turns away and starts washing his hands, so I guess he really is going to take a look at my shoulder. Still, I can't resist baiting him. My tongue runs away with me at the best of times, but right now it's like the thing's got a mind of its own. "You should see the rest of me," I laugh, throwing another grin in the direction of his back. "Haven't had any more rest from the waist down than I have up top."

He turns back toward me, and the look on his face is hard and cold like granite. "Punks like you, you're incorrigible."

That's when I realise those taps have been running for a long time now, long enough that there's a sink full of water waiting there. The doctor grabs a handful of my hair, hauls me to my feet and drags me over to it. He's strong enough that I wouldn't have a chance sober, and as it is I can barely keep upright, let alone fight him off. All I can do is flail stupidly, like a clumsy little ragdoll in his hands, while he puts me where he wants me. He pushes me down and dunks my face in the water, and all of a sudden my whole world is just the cold touch of it, inescapable coldness flooding into my nose and throat, making my whole head sting. Then he hauls me back up, and air rushes back into my lungs hot and thick, fighting past the water I'm coughing out.

"You feeling any more sober now, son?" His palm hits my cheek hard, and then the back of his hand strikes the other side of my face even harder. "No? How about now?"

I can hear myself yelping in pain in between the coughs that rack me, but even that's cut off soon enough. He pushes me down again, holds me down a little longer, and when he pulls my head out of the water this time it's all I can do not to drop to my knees. He lets go of my hair, and I lean against the sink, breathing hard and willing myself not to stumble and fall.

"How's your head?" The doctor says, folding his arms. "Any clearer now?"

"Yeah, a lot clearer." I run a hand through my hair, pushing the wet strands of it back off my forehead. Now that I can breathe again, I can just about put a hungry smile back together on my face. "But I've still got this strange sensation, doc, like an ache inside me. Or an itch I can't quite scratch."

"Incorrigible, absolutely incorrigible, aren't you?" He grabs hold of my hair again, and this time when my arm flails out it catches one of the glass beakers on the counter, and the thing shatters on the floor loud enough to make me wince.

The door opens, and the receptionist sticks his head into the room. "Everything okay, doctor?" He asks, sounding on point but not worried, not one bit.

"Of course it is," the doctor says, as sharp with his receptionist as he's been with me. "Go back to the desk, and lock that door behind you. No visitors for the rest of the morning."

The receptionist looks at me, at my bare skin and bruises, and my wet hair and the old guy's hand still tangled in it, and he gives me a look that says _yeah, I know your type, and I'm going to enjoy pretending not to hear what's going on in behind this door for the next hour or so_. But he just nods, smiles, and says "Yes, doctor." Then he's gone, and I can hear the click of the lock turning.

"I knew you were a piece of trash when you first came in here," the doctor says, yanking my head back by the hair. "And you've proved me right, in spades. You come in here drunk, black and blue from your last pickup, and you throw yourself at me like a dog in heat… You're nothing but street trash, son, with the stink of the gutter still on you."

I want to say _yes, yes I am, I'm everything you say and then some_ , but the words won't come and my mouth is so dry, all I can do is lick my lips and stare up at him silently. Then his palm smacks down across my cheek again, warm and hard as it stings my skin, forcing a little yelp out of me. Another slap, and that yelp melts into a groan.

"Depraved little punk," he says. "Not a decent bone in your body, is there?" His fist tightens in my hair, and the back of his hand strikes my other cheek, and I start pulling against his grip like I'm trying to fight him off. But as soon as the doctor lets go of my hair, I sink to my knees, and that just makes him laugh.

"Typical hoodlum, on your knees at the drop of a hat." He stands there looking down at me, just watching me as I lean forward against him. My hands rest on his thighs and my cheek rubs against his crotch, against the rich fabric of his trousers and the thick, warm flesh underneath it. He doesn't push me away, or pull me forward. He just keeps on watching over the top of his glasses, watching me unbutton his fly, watching me wrap my fingers around his cock, and he's hard before I've even touched him, so I guess he likes throwing those insults just as much as I like catching them. Somehow my mouth isn't so dry now, as I slide my it down around his shaft, and by the time my lips are brushing against the rough grey hair at its base, my throat is wet and open enough that I can take the whole thing with ease. My fingers circle the base of his cock firmly, anchoring myself as I move, and I let my other hand slip down to rest in my own lap. I know he'll tell me off for that, but I want every chastisement I can get out of him, so I don't make any attempt to hide what I'm doing. I just keep on sucking his cock and rubbing my own through my jeans, letting all those hungry little noises spill out of my lips against his flesh.

Then a sudden sharp sound breaks my concentration, and I look up to see the doctor pulling on the second of a pair of latex gloves. The sound of the rubber snapping against his wrist, the smell of it in the air, well, it doesn't do anything to dampen down my excitement. And then he grabs my throat, pushes me back off his cock and pulls me up to my feet, and all I can do is groan. I've got my belt unbuckled and my jeans unfastened by the time he hauls me across to the examination table, and I've shoved the whole lot down around my ankles by the time he bends me over. Watching him lube his hand up gives me the shivers. That kind of thing always does, but this time it gets me more hot and bothered than ever, since he's got those fingers wrapped in latex. He's had my mouth around his cock already, but he won't touch me without gloves? That makes me feel dirtier than any name he could call me.

"Stop squirming," he orders, putting his dry hand on my back heavily enough that I don't really have a choice.

"Hurry up and fuck me, then." I smirk at him over my shoulder, but all it earns me is a slap on the thigh.

"You'll take it on my schedule and like it, son."

His fingers slide along the cleft of my ass, rubbing and circling and stroking lube across my skin, for what feels like hours before one finger finally sinks into me. I bite my lip. I'm not going to make a sound, I'm not going to let one damn finger make me groan. I grip the edge of the table, tensing my legs to stop them from trembling, but I can't help pushing back against his hand. He slips another finger into my ass, slides the two of them in and out of me a few times as if he's testing the angle, and then he crooks his fingers just right and my ass lights up with sensation. I moan through gritted teeth, and he does it again, and again, until my eyes are squeezed shut and I'm groaning in earnest, clutching the table like I'm clinging onto it for dear life.

"Not in such a hurry now, are you?" The doctor chuckles, sawing his fingers in and out of me slow and steady, hitting that spot every time like it's got a target painted on it ten feet high. I can’t answer, I can do anything except press my face against table and dig my nails into the leather of it. It feels like he's hauling me up a ladder rung by rung, step by step, and once he gets to the top he's going to fling me right off of it. I can't remember the last time I felt so out of control without being tied up. I can see the top rung of that ladder approaching fast, and finally my tongue decides to start working again.

"Take it easy, doc," I say, and it sounds like I'm begging. "You keep going like that and I'll–"

"Not until I'm done with you, you won't." He sounds confident, but I'm not so sure. I know my own body, and I know that feeling in the pit of my stomach, coiling up taut and hot like a spring, getting closer and closer to breaking loose every time those fingers slide into me. The sound of his knuckles slapping against my skin is so loud, so wet and hard, that it seems like even the noises my body makes are plotting with him to push me over the edge. I can feel it gaining on me, breathing down my neck, sinking its claws into me, and I know it's too late–

And then the doctor slides his fingers out of me, and my body just stops dead like he's yanked hard on its choke-chain.

"Arrogant little punk," he laughs, slapping my ass with one wet, gloved hand. "Think you know everything, don't you?"

I don't know what to say, so I just lean against the table, hoping he can't see how much my legs and arms are shaking. But who am I kidding, of course he can see it. His dry hand rubs along the back of my thigh like he's stroking a nervous pet, and I guess he probably does see guys like me as not much better than animals.

"Hold still," he orders, and that makes me laugh, because with the tip of his cock rubbing up and down against my ass like this, I don't have a chance. That laughter drains away into a groan as he pushes forward. He grips the cheeks of my ass in those big hands and spreads me wide open as he slides his cock in. I reckon normally I'd struggle to take it, but he's got me so relaxed and well-lubed that his cock sinks into me like it's a perfect fit. I push back against him, trying to ride him a little, but he doesn't tolerate that for a minute. Before I've moved more than a couple of inches, those hands pin me down to the table, one on my shoulder and one on the base of my spine, and they hold me in position so that all I can do is stand there and take it. And he does make me take it, feeding his cock into me in long, slow thrusts that seem to take forever and make me hungrier for it each time.

"No need to be gentle, you won't break me, doc," I say, trying to give him some cheek even though my voice is shaking like a leaf. "And even if you did, you could put me back together again." As my lips move, I feel something wet and cool against my cheek, and if I could move I'd shake my head at myself, because he's got me so wound up that I'm drooling all over this nice leather upholstery. I wonder how many other boys he's had over this table, how many other cheap little punks have spilled their spit and come and tears on the leather of it. If I came right now, he'd probably make me lick the mess up– no, more likely he'd rub my face in it like he was training a puppy. And he'd probably give me another dunking in that cold water afterwards, just to make sure the message got through.

"You don't know when to keep your mouth shut, do you, son?" He gives me another slap on the thigh, but his voice sounds taut and rough with pleasure now, and I know an invitation when I hear one.

"What if I don't?" I push back against him, but with that hand still weighing my back down I'm going nowhere. "You going to shut me up, doc?"

He reaches down underneath me to grab hold of my cock, and I flinch instinctively, expecting that big hand of his to be too rough on me. But his fingers are as skilled and precise here as they were in my ass, and he gives me just enough pressure to get me pushing forward into his grip. I had another line, another bit of backchat I wanted to throw at him, but it's gone now. All I can think about is the way his fingers stroke over the head of my cock just right, the way his hips grind against my ass, the way the base of his shaft stretches me open so it's almost too much, and the feeling spreads out from where he's touching me to the rest of my body, like my flesh is just soaking it up, warm and wet and unstoppable, until I'm trembling and twitching and biting my lip to keep from pleading.

"Doesn't take much to keep you in line, does it, boy?" He laughs, and takes his hand away, and again the feeling cuts off like he's thrown a switch.

I want to answer, to give him a bit of lip just to show I'm not beaten, but all that comes out is a snarl of frustration, and that just earns another one of those rough, nasty laughs. Even as I'm sliding my hand down, I know he's not going to let me finish the job myself, but I've got to at least try. Sure enough the minute my hand wraps around the shaft of my cock, he grabs hold of my wrists and pins both arms behind my back, pushed up high so that every time he thrusts into me the muscles of my shoulders ache and burn a little more. He knows how to position me to make me hurt in just the right way, and he gives me no mercy, none at all. Just those hands, one tight around my wrists and one firm on my cock, as he keeps on fucking me deep and slow.

This time I know he won't let me finish, I know he's going to leave me hanging, and somehow knowing it just makes me get there a little faster, like even my own body wants to see me suffer. I try to keep quiet, but no amount of gritted teeth or bitten lips can lower the volume on the way my hips just keep pushing forward, the way I keep thrusting up greedily into his hand. He's pulling me around like a puppet, making me dance, dragging me right up to the edge and then holding me there by the throat. A choked groan wells up inside me, and he laughs at me again.

"Having problems, son?" He says, and he might be a skilled doctor but I don't think he could do genuine concern if he tried.

"Let me come, you old–" He twists my arms up higher behind my back, and I cut myself off with another yelp. The pain makes me a bit better-mannered but not much more coherent. "Let me, stop teasing me, come on, doc, let me come…" The words rush out of me, mixed in with a groan that feels like it'll never end, and then finally the right word occurs to me. "Please," I say, looking back at him over my shoulder, so he can see I mean it. "Please, doc. Let me come."

"So you _can_ behave yourself," he laughs, but even though he's mocking me, those fingers start working me over just the way I wanted, just the way I need it, firm and merciless and perfectly-aimed, and in a handful of strokes he's got me tensing and bucking and spilling come all over that cold latex glove.

"You going to say thank you, like a good boy?" He says, and when I give a breathless little snort of laughter, he just chuckles and keeps on fucking me, harder and meaner about it now that he's not teasing me. "No, I didn't think so. It'll take more than that to teach manners to a hoodlum like you, won't it?"

"Yeah," I grin at him over my shoulder. "No harm in trying, though."

The doctor lets go of my cock and brings his hand up to rest on my back again, wiping it clean on my skin, so I guess he wants me covered in it. By the way he's hammering into me now, it won't be long til he's painted my insides to match the exterior. Both of those big hands are pressing down on my back now, holding me in position like he's trying to grind me into the table, and I'm so sore and aching now that every time his cock slams into me I have to grit my teeth and swallow down the whimpers that keep trying to claw their way out of my lips. I can take it, I'm not going to let him think I can't take it, not for a moment. So I keep my mouth shut and my fingers tight on the edge of the table, and it's only when he gives me one last hard thrust that the dam breaks and I cry out against the leather.

When he pulls out, I stay where I am, trying to catch my breath. Me and this table are pretty well-acquainted now, so I just lie there hanging onto it for a minute, letting it take my weight, until the doctor gives me a nudge with the toe of his shoe.

"Get dressed," he says, pulling off the gloves and dropping them into the little pedal bin next to him. "And make it quick, I don't want you hanging around when the next patient arrives."

That makes me laugh. I'll bet he doesn't, especially if the next one is anything like the one he's just finished with. Two hoodlums in one treatment room is probably more than his insurance would cover, so I do as I'm told. As I'm putting my shirt back on, the doctor unlocks the door and calls for the receptionist. "Keep your eye on him," he says, and he sounds almost like the boss ordering one of his lackeys around. "Make sure he doesn't take anything with him when he goes."

"Alright, doctor," the receptionist nods, and gives me a long, nasty smile, like he'd very much appreciate it if I _did_ try to pocket something. But I keep my hands to myself, even after the doctor has disappeared off upstairs, and I finish getting dressed as quickly as I can, which isn't that quick at all given how much more my shoulder hurts now than it did before this check-up. I'm tired and hungover, but as I'm leaving I can't resist trying my luck with the receptionist.

"What time do you finish, then?" I say, giving him the best smile I can manage with my lips this sore and my throat bone-dry.

"Whatever time it is, it'll be way past _your_ bedtime, sunshine." The receptionist laughs at me, and I can still hear him chuckling to himself as he slams the door in my face.

I shove my hands in my pockets, and my shoulder starts throbbing again right on cue. Between that and the way my ass twinges every time I move, I think I'm going to be wincing all the way home. I set off walking, as brisk as I can without straining myself. After all, I've got to get my rest. Doctor's orders.


End file.
